Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (4 page)

 
          
It
was possible that the slain man was only one of the C P outfit, but remembering
what Fosbee had said, Sudden shook his head at the thought; he was only too
sure that the nester had been a true prophet.

 
          
“It’ll
mean trouble, ol hoss,” he confided to his mount —“big trouble; an’ what I’m
packin’ in will certainly start it, but I couldn’t do nothin’ else.”

 
          
WINDY,
so called—according to a facetious dweller therein —because it never was, lay
in the middle of a large saucer-like depression enclosed by forest-clad slopes
which were themselves walled in by an oval of craggy, granite hills. At the
western end of the valley towered Old Stormy, a formidable cone of ribbed and
turreted rock, the source of Thunder River, which, after a tempestuous journey
through the wild gorges of the mountain-side, became a wide, and, in summer, a
shallow stream rolling lazily along its sandy bed to depart placidly by way of
a break in the hills. The eastern limit of the valley was dominated by a
tree-and scrub-covered, squat pile known as Battle Butte.

 
          
The
westering sun was sinking behind the hills in a flare of crimson fire when
Sudden rode into the town. The
place presented no features of
interest, and save
for the surrounding scenery, might have been any one
of the many he had passed through. The same dusty, hoof-and wheel-rutted street
formed by two irregular rows of buildings, the most pretentious of which were
of log or ‘dobe, the others being mere shacks with dirt roofs, or dug-outs.
Only a few of the erections boasted a second storey; several displayed the
false front, but the sun-scorched, warped shingles rendered the device a
transparent one in both senses of the word. The absence of paint was remedied
by the grey-white alkali dust which covered everything, and
a
rubble
of tin cans which hemmed in each habitation formed a sordid
substitute for vegetation. A cynic might well have reflected that in the whole
of the valley only the work of mankind was an abomination.

 
          
Sudden
found the street deserted, but before he had ridden far along it a man emerged
from one of the shacks and paused, staring, when he saw the new arrival, who
promptly asked for the marshal’s office.

 
          
“Furder
up, but if yo’re
needin’
Sam, yu’d better try Magee’s.
I’ll show yu,” the man replied. “Whose remainders are yu totin’?”

 
          
“That’s
what I wanta find out,” the traveller told him.

 
          
Anxious
to be first with the news, the other asked no more questions. Clumping along
the board sidewalk, he made better time than could the horses in the loose
sand, and presently disappeared through the swing-doors of one of the larger
buildings, which bore on a battered sign the inscription “The Lucky Chance.” By
the time the puncher reached the spot he had a following of every person he had
met, and this was soon augmented by those in the saloon. The last to appear was
the marshal, a smallish, wizened fellow of about thirty-five, with a narrow,
crafty face, mean eyes, and a still meaner mouth which a drooping black moustache
unfortunately failed to conceal. Sudden recognized the type, a bullying,
arrogant jack-in-office, who would take every advantage and give none. The
man’s first words confirmed this impression.

 
          
“Yu
wanta see me?” he asked truculently.

 
          
“No,
but I reckon I gotta,” Sudden said acidly. “I’ve brung yu a job.”

 
          
The
retort evoked an audible snicker from the onlookers and a spot of colour in the
sallow cheeks of the officer. He looked disgustfully at the limp form on the
led horse.

 
          
“What
d’yu s’pose I am—the undertaker?” he sneered.

 
          
“I’m
reckonin’ that as marshal its yore job to find out who bumped off this fella,”
the puncher retorted.

 
          
At
a word from the marshal two of the bystanders untied the body and laid it on
the sidewalk. “Hell’s flames, it’s Kit Purdie—thought I reckernized his roan
! ”
cried one of them; adding meaningly, “yu won’t have far
to look for them as did this, Sam.”

 
          
“Keep
yore fool trap closed—Up to now there ain’t nothin’ to show who done it,” the
officer snapped, but his forehead wrinkled in a worried frown. “Why didn’t the
damn young idjut pull his freight like I told him?”

 
          
He
bent over the body and then straightened up. “Somebody
fetch
Doc. Toley,” he ordered, and turned to the puncher.
“What
d’yu know ‘bout this?”

 
          
Sitting
slackly in his saddle, the puncher told his story. The mention of the glimpsed
grey horse brought a curse from Slype. He looked malignantly at Sudden.

 
          
“We
on’y got yore word,” he said. “Yu mighta done it yoreself.”

 
          
The
accused man smiled in derision. “An’ fetched him into show yu? Oh, yeah,” he
scoffed.

 
          
“It
would ‘a’ bin a good bluff,” retorted the officer. “Lemme see yore gun.”

 
          
At
this demand the stranger stiffened, and there was an ominous rasp in his voice
as he replied, “Which end would yu like to look at? She’s a Winchester .44 an’
the barrel is foul; I told yu I fired once.”

 
          
Ere
the marshal could reply to this obvious challenge, a short, fat man, with long,
unkempt hair, and a clever if somewhat bloated face, pushed his way
unceremoniously through the crowd. He was clearly the worse for liquor, but his
speech was careful, precise.

 
          
“What
do you want now, Slippery?” he asked, and then, as he saw the outstretched
figure, “young Purdie, eh? So the Burdettes have downed him?”

 
          
The
marshal gritted out an oath. “We dunno; yu got no right to say that, Doc.,” he
growled.

 
          
“I
have a right to say just what I damn please, Slippery,” the medico retorted.
“If you and your friends the Burdettes don’t like it, suit yourselves. What’s
the use of sending for me now? I can’t put life into a dead man.”

 
          
The
marshal’s mean eyes flashed an ugly look at him. “Ain’t askin’ yu to,” he said
sullenly. “Want yu to dig suthin’ out—the bullet; mebbe it’ll give us a
pointer.”

 
          
Toley
turned the corpse so that it
lay
face downwards, cut
away the clothing which covered the wound, and began to probe. With the morbid
curiosity of a crowd the world over, the onlookers jostled one another to get a
view, and the doctor cursed them when the stamping feet threatened to engulf
him. At length the gruesome task was done and he stood up, the bloodstained
pellet of lead between his fingers. The marshal examined it.

 
          
“Looks
like a .38 to me,” he said reluctantly, and the frown on his face was heavier.

 
          
“Shore
is,” agreed half a dozen of the nearest spectators. “What did I tell yu, Sam?”
cried the fellow who had spoken before. “Luce Burdette uses a .38.”

 
          
“Yu
didn’t tell me nothin’ ‘cept that yore mouth opens too easy, an’ I knowed that
afore,” snapped the officer. “Luce ain’t got the on’y .38 in the world, has
he?”

 
          
“He’s
got the on’y one in these parts that I
knows
of,” was
the reply.

 
          
“King
Burdette’ll be glad to hear o’ yore interest in his family,”
sneered
Slype. “Hell!

 
          
Here
comes Ol’ Man Purdie; what cussed luck brought him to town to-day?”

 
          
Stepping
heavily but swiftly along the sidewalk, with the short, clipped stride of one
who has spent much of his life in the
saddle,
came a
sturdily-built, broad-shouldered man of around fifty. His strong, clean-shaven
face, which should have expressed good-humour, was now drawn and haggard.
Before his advance the crowd opened, and in a moment he was beside the body.

 
          
One
glance was enough.

 
          
“
God !
” he muttered. “It’s true, then.” He dropped on one
knee and touched the pallid face. “My lad—my only lad,” he whispered brokenly.

 
          
For
some moments there was silence; men who had not thought of it before furtively
removed their hats. Then the bereaved father heaved himself to his feet,
tragedy in every line of his face, his eyes shining wetly in the half-light.
But there was no weakness in voice or bearing when he turned to the marshal.

 
          
“Who
did this?” he asked harshly.

 
          
“Yu
know near as much as I do, Chris,” Slype replied. “This fella fetched him
in”—he jerked a thumb at the cowpuncher.
“Claims he saw it
happen.”

 
          
Purdie
turned his misted eyes on the stranger; his look was an invitation. Sudden
repeated his story of the shooting.

 
          
“Yu
didn’t see the skunk?” the old man asked.

 
          
“No,
I caught the flash of a grey hoss through the brush an’ took a chance,” the
puncher told him. “The shell I found was a .38 an’ the bullet bears that out.
If I could ‘a’ sat in the game I’d ‘a’ been right pleased.”

 
          
“I’m
obliged to yu, friend,” Purdie said.

 
          
From
the outskirts of the crowd a voice rang through the gathering
gloom :
“He’ll take the Black Burdettes.”

 
          
The
cattleman’s head jerked up. “Yu said it, whoever yu are,” he grated. “This is
their work, shore enough.”

 
          
“Hold
yore hosses, Purdie,” the marshal broke in. “We got mighty little to justify
that.”

 
          
“The
hoss an’ the gun tally, an’ Luce was seen headin’ that way a bit before it
happened,”

 
          
Purdie
said bitterly. “Yu call that mighty little, huh?”

 
          
“It
ain’t conclusive,” Slype insisted. “If yu want me to deal with this”

 
          
The
other whirled fiercely upon him. “I ain’t askin’ yu to, Slype; keep out of it.
The C P can fight its own battles an’ pay its own scores. By God!
it’ll
settle this one in full.”

 
          
“That
ain’t
no
way to talk, Chris,” the marshal
remonstrated. “I’m here to administer the law”

 
          
“Yo’re
here to do what the Circle B murderers tell yu,” was the angry retort. “Yu can
save yore breath; I ain’t a-goin’ to back down before all the Burdettes that
ever was pupped, an’ that goes.”

 
          
There
was no passion in the challenge—it was the stark defiance of one whose life had
been a battle; who had faced indomitably all the difficulties and disasters
which the early pioneer in a savage untamed region must expect. Nature in her
wildest moods, Indians, rustlers, starvation,
thirst
—Chris
Purdie had fought and beaten them all. And now, in his mellowing years, when
Fate had dealt him the bitterest blow of all, he was still unsubdued, still
full of fight. There were many such men among the early pioneers; their names
are forgotten, but their work survives; they made Western America.

 
          
SUDDEN
passed the night at the hotel, and in the morning attended the sorry farce of
an inquiry into the death of young Purdie. The verdict that deceased met his
end in a gun-fight with a person or persons unknown appeared to satisfy the
marshal, though it aroused murmurs in some quarters. None of the Burdettes was
present, a citizen informed the puncher, but when that young man suggested that
this was perhaps good policy on their part, he was quickly corrected.